Christmas with Lord Voldemort
by meldahlie
Summary: There are bad Yule-tide guests. Then there are worse. Missing moment from PS/SS.


Christmas with Lord Voldemort

_A/N: Yes, I know - hardly seasonal! I was re-reading PS/SS and couldn't resist...!_

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Christmas, 1991. All over Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, goodwill and festive spirit reigned. Students sat contemplating their presents in satisfaction, for there seems to be some enchantment laid by the Founders or another long-forgotten benefactor that any students remaining for Christmas will receive at least one blissful gift. Headmaster Dumbledore was deep in the pages of a new book; Professor Flitwick deep in a box of strictly not-dancing sugar plums. Argus Filch had for the moment put aside the thoughts of all those sticky fingerprints up walls and shreds of wrapping paper on floors, and was enjoying five minutes utter peace with his feet up in new woollen slippers and Mrs Norris on his lap. In the kitchens, the house-elves by special command of the Headmaster were toasting each other with half a thimble of Butterbeer apiece. And in his office, Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor Quirrell knelt before his mirror.

"Do not lie to Lord Voldemort!" cried the high, cold voice – was it in his head? Or did it really echo through the room as it seemed? At least his sound-muffling charms on the door were – well, to use a bad pun, sound.

"No, Master." He would **not** stammer. His slight boyhood problem he made so much of nowadays as cover before the world would not afflict him now, would not force itself out under the pressure of the red-hot alien anger that burned in the back of his head.

"If you had succeeded at Halloween, this would have been the best Christmas of your life," the voice went on.

"Yes, Master." Despite himself, Quirrell shuddered slightly at the memory of that night. "You are most merciful to your servant."

"Perhaps too merciful..."

"M-m-master?" The red-hot sensation had changed, changed instantly to icy sweat pouring down his face.

"You do not want to be here," the voice hissed, dripping scorn. "You are pining for the festivities..."

"I am here," Quirrell protested. "All that folly, I-I have n-not taken part in. There is only power – and f-foolish weakness."

"Indeed..."

"T-the staff cards, the tinsel in the c-classroom: I did not choose those. They were unavoidable, to excite no s-suspicion, M-master. I-i-in the past, I may have been that foolish, but I k-k-know better now." His voice steadied, and he raised his eyes hopefully to the mirror. "Master?"

"You know better now..." the voice repeated, after what seemed like an eternity of silence. "That much is true..."

"Yes, Master."

"And so... Lord Voldemort will excuse you this time – yet again."

Quirrell gulped. "You are – more than merciful. B-but-" Silence. "The Christmas dinner," he blurted onwards eventually. "I will have to go to that. Or it will be thought – odd. It is expected. The Headmaster made a special point of asking me last night-"

"I heard," the voice cut in icily. There was an even longer silence before the hissing voice broke it again. "Very well. You may go."

"Master!" Quirrell bowed deeply, and then scrambled from his knees. "I– I will be putting the turban on again now, then. Master?" There was no answer. After a minute Quirrell let out his breath, picked up the long silken cloth and began to wind. Round, and round, and round. It was oddly soothing.

He tucked in the end, and stared into the mirror. He must be soothed, he must be calm, he must be perfectly collected – for he must go down and eat a turkey dinner between two highly able Legilimens, both of whom seemed to be keeping an eye on him these days. No, no – he stared more firmly into the glass. There was nothing to worry about, for there was only power and those too weak to seek it. The men he would sit between, therefore, were weak, were fools. All would be well – and it would be a nice Christmas dinner. He would eat much, and talk little. That was safest. He would stammer, just a little. He had spent the morning having a well-deserved lie-in, had he not? It would be pleasant. It would be enjoyable.

It would be much better than Christmas dinner last year in Serbia, with the two hags who had tried to eat him for dessert.

Wouldn't it?

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End file.
